Abnormally Bright
by bookworm42x
Summary: Two years after Voldemort's demise, the Wizarding World is still trying to put itself back together. This rebirth is witnessed by a corrupted girl who sees it like it is and an easygoing boy who just needs to get things right.
1. Chapter One: Bright

"And that over there, that's Bright Quigley. Only thirteen years old—quite corrupted."

I growl as Eddie, one of the regulars at the Sneezing Snitch, tells a bureaucrat who doesn't look very interested about _my _life. Granted, I have an interesting life, and I'm slightly offended that the snobbish Ministry dog doesn't want to hear about it.

But that _doesn't _mean that Ed can just go telling any old person.

But _that _doesn't mean that he isn't going to. I decide to listen and see if he's going to tell any lies. Most know better than to lie about me. I can throw a mean hex.

"Heard it all straight from one of the old Death Eater spies, a Mr. Norman Connolly. They killed 'er dad, captured 'er mum. She was just nine. Just a tyke! She 'n' her sister—Elizabeth, 'bout seven a' the time—hid out at the old Leaky Cauldron. That place the Longbottoms own now, full of Aurors and gover'ment lapdogs like yerself, eh?" Eddie laughs, ignoring the shocked expression on the bureaucrat's face. "Anyway, those Masks found 'em 'bout two years later, when You-Know-Who _really _took power. 'Bout time tha' Potter went into hiding. They took the girl—little Liz—they take her out into the square, see? Blow her 'ead straight off. And they says, 'look, y'fools! An example.' An example!" Eddie shouts drunkenly. I clench my hands into fists.

"That's quite enough," I say coolly, marching over to them. "_Obliviate_," I spell, pointing my wand at the stiff. "Eddie, I swear I'd kill you if you weren't bloody drunk. _Colloshoo_!" I aim towards his feet, which promptly stick to the floor. Eddie groans. "Oi! Amadine!" I wave over the barmaid, Amadine Vaisey. Amadine's a slag, but a nice slag—she sometimes gives me extra food because she knows how dirt poor I am.

"Take care of this wanker, would you?" I toss her a bronze Knut and a winning smile, and storm out of the Sneezing Snitch.

Sorry, I do believe I haven't introduced myself. I'm Bright Quigley. Let me get this _very _clear—I am _not _a bright person. I don't mean to say that I'm not intelligent, for I'd be lying if I said that. I'm probably the smartest person in the Alleys, especially when it comes to common sense. Bright as in _cheerful._ Biggest pessimist you'll meet in your lifetime. And rightfully so.

I'm a regular at the Sneezing Snitch, but I don't come for 'the best firewhiskey in all the Alleys!' (That's also a lie, by the way. You learn to differentiate between lies and truth when you hang around here as much as I have.) No, I come for the dialogue. Drunks make very interesting conversationalists.

Like I've previously mentioned (and I _do _hope you're keeping up), I'm poor. And it's rotten. If they evaluated girls based on cleverness in the Alleys, I'd have loads of Galleons. But unfortunately, that's _not _how the female gender is assessed around here, and for a kind of plain, skinny girl with only a mop of black hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her nose, it doesn't bode well. But I get what I need to survive by pickpocketing, and that's enough. My main source of income is Twilfitt's (used to be Twilfitt and Tatting's, but they shortened the name when Mr. Twilfitt and Mr. Tatting fancied the same bird). Twilfitt's is a rather high-class clothing store, where all the high-class swots go to get fitted into their high-class robes. I think all that upper-class nonsense is a load of rubbish. Here's the breakdown: you're close to Harry Potter, you get gold: you're at the bottom of the social food chain, you get rags. It's ironic, yes, that that now decides my fate, because Harry Potter was a bit of a joke when Liz and I were kids. It was all over the papers that he and his old crony Dumbledore were complete nutcases who _actually _thought You-Know-Who was back. Mum and Dad had always told us You-Know-Who was dead, and everyone knew necromancy was just a myth, so why believe anything other than what we knew? But then some of the stuff Potter and Dumbledore said turned out to be pretty damn true, and we learned that a bit too early for our liking. I was outraged when the _Daily Prophet _(was a nasty piece of dragon shite back then—still is) passed off Dad's death as a _heart attack_. Something so simple and _Muggle _as a _heart attack. _I always had Dad's logical head, but I also had Mum's unfortunate, unruly temper. It was always Liz who was more soft-spoken and persuasive. It was her who convinced me not to go hunting down that _demon _of an obituary writer.

Now, I try to be more like her at that time as I stroll down Knockturn Alley, my worn blue cap in hand, shouting out to all the drunks and loons of the night.

"Galleons for education! Galleons for a measly year of schooling! Anyone?"

It's another lie, and I'm sure most of these fellows know it. If I gave that McGonagall the usual sob story about how my whole family was killed and I've nowhere to go, she'd take me right in, no tuition, no question. But I don't particularly want to go to Hogwarts. I was there when I was eleven, and even though all the kids that come to Diagon in the summer say it's _soo-o-ooo _ace now, I still shy away from it. Let's just say Amycus Carrow didn't take a fancy to me during my first and only year at Hogwarts. I think she was more confused than angry, really. A _Slytherin _who didn't _want _to be part of her little clique? Preposterous!

I need the money, though. I can't live off Amadine's scraps forever, and sooner or later I want to get myself a room at the Leaky. Maybe persuade some Auror living there to mentor me. For now, I live at Cuffe for seven Knuts a week. Cuffe's a boarding house run by the _charming _Vingerus Grawe. It's basically a giant, run-down building filled with twin beds. Grawe lets in new people every week, and mostly kicks those out, but there are a few people who've lived at Cuffe for a while. I'm one of them; I've been here since the war ended almost two years ago. So is Avery, an old bloke. I feel for Avery. He was a Death Eater during the war, but he didn't want to be. He was just scared. Of death, of You-Know-Who, of losing the people he loved. I've heard the story a million times. It's the one he always tells when he's drunk. I don't know where he gets the firewhiskey, seeing as he hasn't got a job nor any money. I know for a fact his daughter Audrey, a girl in her early twenties who lives at the Leaky, is the one who pays his Knuts every week. Audrey's a careless, clumsy sort of person, and has been more loving than strict with her father, but I doubt she would be the one to supply him with firewhiskey. I bet it's Grawe. I _knew _he had a soft spot for Avery. I would shout at him, but I want a roof above my head, so I'm nice (enough) to him even when he's acting like a prat.

There's a few other semi-permanent residents at Cuffe, but I don't talk to them much. I more observe them. I know that Beatrice is having trouble keeping her barely-paying job as a street seller, that Katie lost all her money in a crisis and is saving up her Sickles to seek out her ex-boyfriend, who's in the big Quidditch leagues. Apparently, she was on the same Quidditch team as Potter once. That's what she tells her friend Jensen late at night. I don't believe it for a second. But here she is, repeating the story again, this time to the new girl, who says her name is Contra. I'm listening in, but my eyes are on Avery, who's sleeping and murmuring something indistinguishable in his sleep.

"There was this one time we had a match against Ravenclaw, and Potter was terribly scared of dementors, so this Slytherin kid Malfoy dressed up as one to try and sabotage the match."

"Why did 'e want Ravenclaw to win?" Contra asks tentatively. She's French, so I don't think she gets the rivalry between the Gryffindorks and the serpents yet.

"'Cause Ravenclaw was rather shite back then, and it would've been an easy way to the Quidditch Cup. But Potter shoots this weird shape at Malfoy, and then he goes after the Snitch! Hilarious, really, to see the look on Malfoy's face. Think he's engaged now. If I could only remember her name..." Katie scratches her chin. "Oh, right! Astoria. Yes, that's it. Astoria Greengrass."

I sit up straight suddenly, because I know that name. It rings a bell somewhere. _Greengrass...Greengrass..._I rack my brains, trying to figure out where I've heard it before, but no luck.

"Going Galleon-snatching again tomorrow, Princess?" Beatrice asks. All the tenants of Cuffe call me 'Princess' for some bloody weird reason. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest there, at thirteen.

"Yeah, Beatrice," I reply.

"Good girl," Beatrice says with a cackle. "Yes, very good. You're learning the ways of the world, aren't y'? So young. Like a flower waiting to wilt."

"In that case, I've already disintegrated," I tell her, unsmiling. She has no retort to that, so I curl up on one of the dirty mattresses and do my best to fall asleep.

The next morning, I rise bright and early and go to the Sneezing Snitch to wash my dark curls in the sink and nick a few breath mints from Amadine. That's my morning routine. I wear a blue T-shirt, tight black jeans, and shiny combat boots (all stolen from respective clothing shops, of course). I look very normal. Anyone who looks at me twice will think I'm one of the Muggle-born children who's come home a bit early from Hogwarts.

As I steal my way through the crowd, I spot a catch. A big one. One of those Quidditch-playing types is talking to a dark-skinned girl with cornrows snaking down her back. I recognize her from the discarded editions of the _Daily Prophet _Grawe keeps around. She's a war hero, but I can't remember her name right now.

The real point is that Mr. Quidditch has a bulging wallet hanging out of the back pocket of his slim maroon robe. A purse full of gleaming gold Galleons that he won't even _miss_. I take a deep breath and barrel into him. The wallet conveniently falls out of his pocket and onto the pavement.

"I'm so sorry!" I cry.

"Yes, well..." Mr. Quidditch replies, obviously disgruntled. _Merlin's hat_. He's rude, too, so I don't feel a bit guilty as I ever-so-discreetly snatch up that _lovely _money and disappear into the crowd. But I freeze as I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Give me back my purse," he growls. He looks a bit frightening now, and I'm stuck there as thoughts whirl through my brain, coming up with a billion ideas of what to do. I could always give him his purse and run, of course...but I could stand my ground, too.

I must be very, very stupid if I'm even thinking of doing this. There are _so _many things that could go wrong. But I do it anyway.

"Stranger danger!" I yelp, alerting nearby shoppers to Mr. Quidditch's menacing figure and my small, defenseless form. Then I kick him in a very unfortunate place and run for my life, but not before I see the woman he was talking to—I remember her name now, Angelina Johnson—smirking at his predicament.

_Success._

I finally reach Ambrosey Alley, the nearest safe haven where I can open my prize without people inquiring after it. Ambrosey is rather deserted, but it's a nice place, and the few people that inhabit it are generally kind and keeping to their own business. I empty the contents of the purse, and am disappointed. There's not as much as I expected. About twenty Galleons and a few Sickles. I expected at least one hundred Sickles from a rich bloke like him. But this is still a catch. Galleons are rare to my eyes.

"I hope you're going to share that with me, Bright."

I jump and clutch the wallet to my chest, then sigh in relief. It's just my occasional partner-in-crime, Maisie Cattermole, or Cat, as the Alley people call her. Cat's whole family was killed off by Death Eaters during the war, just like mine. Maybe it's why I like her so much. She has just turned eleven, which means she can go to Hogwarts in the fall. But she won't. I know she won't. I've already poisoned her mind against the place with my tales of lurking figures and evil Carrows.

"My money?" I ask her, snorting incredulously. "There's not too many Galleons in here. They'll pay my rent for a while, though." I eye the coins hungrily. "Two months...if I'm lucky."

Cat brushes a strand of limp blond hair out of her eyes. "I need it more than you do."

It's true. She's not as good at surviving as I am. Her long, sandy hair hasn't been washed in ages, so she plaits it in a long, intricate braid to make it look halfway decent. She wears a worn frock and her feet are bare. Her nose is smudged with dirt.

"You can still pickpocket," she continues. "C'mon, Bright. I'm only asking for three."

"Three?" I yelp. "No. Nothing doing." Then I bolt. If I don't, Cat will eventually persuade me into giving her up to six Galleons with her puppy eyes, and I can't afford to do that.

Suddenly, I bump into a tall figure in the archway between Diagon and Ambrosey. I observe them. It's a boy who looks to be a few years older than me. He's tanned and gangly, and his hair is bright purple. He doesn't appear to have a wallet on him, which is a shame. It'd be nice to top off my prize with a few more coins. "Sorry," the boy mutters, brushing past me.

I shake my head and walk to the Sneezing Snitch. I have to be frugal with my new money, but I decide to celebrate a little and order a butterbeer with the mush Amadine serves me (it's disgusting, but it's food and at least it's free) instead of my usual water.

"Where'd you get those Sickles?" Amadine asks suspiciously, eyeing the two silver pieces I've placed on the bar counter.

"I earned them," I lie with a false cheery grin. She knows my excuse is barmy. She's seen me swipe the wallets of her customers before, but she doesn't care. I give her extra Knuts to keep quiet.

Before I know it, my tankard is emptied and my bowl clean. Amadine snatches them up and hands them to one of the kitchen folk for washing. "Go on, you've had your breakfast. Get back to Knockturn."

"Oh, no, I'm not going to Knockturn..."

"What, are you actually going to do something decent today? Read a book? Get ice cream, like any normal kid your age?"

"...that place's terrible for business." I tip an invisible cap to her. "Cheers, Ama."

I end up in Twilfitt's. It's very crowded today, full of jeweled birds and sighing husbands. Among the royals, I see a flash of brown. A knitted sweater. On the street, this would not be an uncommon sight. But here it is. I move towards the sweater, and to my shock, I see that it's Audrey Avery. Her straight auburn hair is in a sleek, elegant knot, and she's looking longingly at a wedding dress. Suddenly, she stops to admire the diamond on her finger. I stare in awe at the ring—I could probably sell it for at least a hundred gold ones. I've never seen her talk of any fellow or wear the ring when she visits her father.

Then it clicks. This is very valuable blackmail material. I approach her with a wide smile on my face.

"Hi, Audrey," I say conversationally. She jumps.

"Bright! Funny seeing you here." I nod, and suddenly she looks mortified. "You mustn't tell Dad I've been here. Or about the ring. You mustn't!"

"Doesn't he deserve to know?" I ask. "After all, an engagement is happy news. When's the big day?"

"You mustn't tell him," Audrey repeats.

"Oh, but I don't know if I can promise that...these things slip out, you know."

"Please!" She's getting hysterical now. A few of the queens give her disdainful glances.

"I can be persuaded," I tell her in a low voice.

"How much?"

Yes, _that's _what I was looking for.

"A few Galleons. Not much for the time being."

"Galleons? I—I couldn't—"

"Could you?" I eye her sharply. "I want ten." It's asking a lot, but if it works, I've got a few more weeks of butterbeer and maybe some new clothes.

"_Ten_?"

I could lower it to five if necessary, I suppose. It depends on how desperate she is for Avery not to find out she's getting hitched.

We're interrupted unexpectedly by a man who looks to be about her age. He's as tall as a beanstalk, with curly, bright red hair and _lots _of freckles.

"Hey, Aud, you find one you like—who's this?"

I recognize him from somewhere. Maybe I've pickpocketed him recently—no, that's not it. Definitely not. "This is Bright," Audrey says quietly. "Bright, this is...Percy."

Yes, I've seen him in the papers a lot. He's one of Potter's mates. A _Weasley. _How did she get her hands on a bloke like that?

"Nice to meet you, Percy," I chirp. "Well, I must be going. I'm on my way back to Cuffe," I say slowly, gauging Audrey's reaction. She grows very, very pale. Good.

"Here, before you go," she says hurriedly, dropping a small sack of gold into my hands.

"Why, thank you." I flash her a smile and bid them goodbye. Her fiance looks quite bewildered at the exchange.

Cat's waiting for me outside, of course. She has eyes only for the ten Galleons clutched in my fist.

"What about that?" she asks, trailing behind me as I walk down Diagon. "Are you going to give me any of that?"

"No."

"But now you have thirty!"she exclaims. "Plus the Sickles."

"I know. I'm saving it."

"For what?" Cat pouts. "If I got my hands on that money, I'd spend it without a care in the world. I can't remember the taste of ice cream anymore. 'N' I haven't read a book in ages neither."

"I'm not falling for it," I tell her. "Wait till Christmas, maybe I'll give you a Galleon then."

"Just a measly _cone_, Bright."

"What the bloody hell is a cone?"

"An ice cream cone. I wouldn't even spend one of your precious Galleons. They only cost a Sickle."

"_Only _a Sickle? I barely see Sickles, kiddo. My stash is all Knuts."

"And Galleons, now. _Thirty _of them."

"I told you, I'm saving them."

"I just want one Sickle. For ice cream. I won't ask you about it anymore, promise."

Cat's 'promises' are rubbish, and she knows I know it. She won't ask for money for about three days, but then she'll come blubbering to me about how she lost a game of dice against that Dillonsby brat and needs to pay him back soon, and _oh Bright, it's only five Knuts, please! _

But if a Sickle (which seems quite small now compared to the gold jingling in my pocket) buys me three days of her silence, so be it.

"Fine. But I'm coming with you, just to make sure you don't gamble it away." Cat grumbles, and I know that's what she was planning to do. It's really not that I don't approve of gambling. She's just bad at it, and not smart enough to realise when she's starting to waste every Knut she gets.

We approach Florean Fortescue's. Florean's getting old, and he's a bit of a loon ever since he was captured by Death Eaters during the war. He still runs his shop, though, at least to my knowledge. Right now he's not at the counter. Instead, there's a tanned boy with bright green hair. I remember bumping into him on my way to the Sneezing Snitch, but I could have sworn his hair was purple back then.

His hair turns pink as I order Cat's ice cream cone. "That'll be all?" he asks.

"Yes." I turn around to leave—I have no use for this shop with its happy atmosphere and customers with their wallets tucked safely in their bags—but he stops me.

"By the way, I'm Jasper."

"I don't care," I tell him coldly. "C'mon, Cat, we're going."

"She's Bright," Cat says to him, grinning cheekily at me. I _knew _I should have let her give my Sickle to Dillonsby. I feel my cheeks heat up. I don't like people knowing my identity. What if this boy, this Jasper with his colour-changing hair and 'that's one Sickle, miss's, were to see me ever-so-discreetly slipping my hand into a shopper's robe pocket and report me to the authorities? No, it's much too dangerous. Cat knows this.

I don't say anything else. I drag that _stupid _eleven-year-old out of the shop without sparing so much as a second glance for _Jasper_.


	2. Chapter Two: Jasper

My eyes land on a familiar girl. She's about thirteen, and bears loose black curls that cascade down her back like a waterfall. Her eyes are a normal blue, but they're desolate and empty. I've seen her around a lot, like she's a magnet to my vision. I've only ever spoken to her once, when she was buying a cone for a younger girl, probably her sister. She was quite rude. As I see her strut around Gramps's shop, I think that she hasn't noticed I'm here yet.

But then she does. She blanches, and leaves the shop at once. I know she was looking for someone with their wallet in plain view, because I've seen her pickpocketing outside my store. She's like a sparrow, flitting in and out of the crowd, snatching up coins and sprinting away from the unsuspecting owners. A sparrow girl.

I sigh, hand over my shift to my coworker, Lee, and go into the back room, where Gramps is avidly writing up HELP WANTED flyers.

There's a bronze plaque above his desk that reads _Florean Fortescue: The best ice cream in all the Alleys since 1938! _ Papers are strewn all over his desk. He's tall and spindly, like Dad, and his eyes are going a bit foggy, which is why he doesn't work behind the counter anymore.

"Find anyone yet, Gramps?" I ask. The only people who work right now are Lee and me. We need more scoopers and cashiers.

"No," he mutters. "You'd think that Potter would find me a good, steady employee. There was a reason I gave 'im all those cones back in the day, y'know. Dunno why you _wouldn't _want t' work here...eh, Jasper, m'boy? Good customers, good benefits, good two Sickles a day." Gramps laughs. "They're wanting more, these selfish young people...Galleons, trinkets, the likes..."

"You're stressed," I remark. "C'mon, I'll take you to the front. Lee will fix you a coffee of some sort."

"D'we sell coffee?"

"Yeah, Gramps. We started after those ladies got on our case, remember? And we make more money because of it."

"Money, schmoney," he says as I lead him to a table. "This is an ice cream shop."

I ignore this remark, and wave to Lee. "Oi! Can you get him a coffee?" Lee nods from his position at the cash register, where he's talking to a pretty, tanned girl with a dark ponytail and a winsome smile. He told me her name is Alicia, and she comes around a lot. Gramps doesn't like her. She never buys anything.

"What's _she _doing?" he asks now. At first, I think he's talking about Alicia, but then I realise he's pointing at the corner of the shop, where the sparrow girl has just slipped a Sickle off of Mrs. Lorrimer's table. She's making her way towards a table where a studious bloke is distracted by his newspaper and won't notice her swiping his wallet. "Bring her to my office, kid," Gramps growls. He looks like my Dad when he's angry. My parents are magical researchers, and they're currently in Ireland. I don't see them often, but it's not a big deal. We don't have much to talk about.

I walk over to the girl, who doesn't see me until I tap her on the shoulder.

"What do _you_ want?" she asks defensively, glaring at me.

"Uh—erm—my grandfather wants to see you in his office."

"Well, he doesn't own me, does he?" she sneers.

"He saw you..." I motion swiping an invisible coin off of a table. Her eyes widen and dart between the windows and the door.

"You shouldn't leave until you've talked to him, _really_—"

"Bugger off!" the sparrow girl shouts suddenly. "I _don't _want to snog you, so _stop asking_!" Everyone in the shop hears her, of course, and she immediately sprints out the door. Gramps motions for me to go after her, but I don't want to.

No, I definitely don't want to.

Okay, so _maybe _I'm a _bit _afraid of her. After all, that kid—her sister?—said she was a bright person. And I don't do well with smartness. I like to be in my element, I like to be better than people at something. That's why I _don't _take Herbology anymore and I _don't _talk to unfamiliar Ravenclaw girls like the rest of my mates. And that is why I work in an ice cream shop. Not much you can do wrong there, right?

I tell Gramps _very _loudly—so loud the entire store can hear me—that I don't know what came over her, I wasn't even _asking _to snog her. Business doesn't do well when your customers think you're a sexual predator. Lee apologises quickly to Alicia and dashs out the door. Well, then. I hope _he _gets humiliated, too. But just in the middle of Diagon Alley instead of in an ice cream shop where there aren't many gossips.

I'm assuming he doesn't, though, because he drags the sparrow girl back into the shop a moment later. She looks like a deer in headlights. Her dark curls are disheveled and she's missing a boot. But most of all, she looks ashamed. Humiliated. Not exactly sorry for stealing, but sorry she got caught.

Her countenance is impassive by the time we force her into Gramps's office.

"Name," Gramps growls. Yeah, he's cool and all, but I'm glad I'm not on his bad side.

"Jane Dursley," she replies readily. He raises his wand a centimeter higher.

"Try again."

"I—I—"

"Gimme your real name and I won't report you to that big watchman out there. And I'll be checking with that little kid I saw waving t'you. Don't think I won't be."

"She won't tell you," the sparrow girl says mockingly.

"Yeah? Well, looks like 'm writing up a report to M. Cadwallader, aren't I?"

Finally, the girl looks defeated. Her eyes are desperate. It's like the one thing she needs is for that report _not _to reach the watchman.

"I'll tell you!" she bursts out, watching Gramps's quill warily. "Bright."

She's looking at the window, and Gramps looks miffed.

"I know it's sunny today, girl, but I haven't _got _all the time in the world," he huffs.

"No, 'Bright' is my name."

"Surname?"

"Quigley."

"Ah, are you related to Finbar Quigley, then? Yessir, I was a supporter of the Ballycastle Bats back in the day. I played Beater, just like good old Quigs." Gramps seems to have forgotten interrogating her. "Remember feeling quite crushed when he kicked the bucket, just like that. My idol, y'know? What was it again, Jasper? A heart attack?"

I don't answer. The sparrow girl—Bright—is looking at my grandfather incredulously. Her entire body is quivering like a leaf. She seems to be rendered speechless, but suddenly I'm proved wrong.

"It wasn't a heart attack," she says simply. "May I go now, Mr. Fortescue?"

She reminds me of my best friend, Trudy, politely trying to escape detention.

"I was going to offer you a job," Gramps says.

My jaw hits the floor.

**A/N: A brief Jasper chapter. I'm not proud of it, and I hate writing from his POV, but I guess I needed to introduce him, right? It'll probably be mostly from Bright's POV from now on, with little intervals from more minor characters. Said best friend named Trudy will be further explained later on. I got my first review today, so that should be recorded in history or whatever. Soo...yeah. Dunno if anyone's actually reading this, but if you are you should review because I will love you for the rest of your life and that is DEFINITELY not in a creepy way. **


	3. Chapter Three: Bright

A _job. _

He's kidding. I swear to Merlin. This loony old man has got to be kidding.

I haven't taken a liking to him, I'll tell you that. First his _stupid _grandson, _stupid _Jasper with his _stupid _purple hair, catches me stealing. The last time I got caught stealing was—well, I can't remember. It was a _very _long time ago (and Mr. Quidditch doesn't count, because I got away with his money in the end). How embarrassing is it to be _caught _by some duffer Metamorphagus? I bet he's a Hufflepuff, too. It's shameful. Then, when I make my loud escape (which has been increasingly effective since the incident with Mr. Quidditch), _another _employee (who I could have sworn was yet _another _war hero—if I had a Galleon for each one I see around Diagon nowadays, I swear) runs after me like he's bloody Flash and _drags _me back to the _stupid _ice cream shop! (Blimey, the number of times I've said 'stupid'—you'd think I was five years old) And then I get a step down from the Spanish Inquisition with Fortescue. Well, really, it wasn't the Spanish Inquisition—all he did was ask me my name—but it _was _all rather rude, if you ask me. He even threatened to turn me over to Cadwallader, who every intelligent person in the Alleys knows is completely barmy. And then he mentioned Dad. And the 'heart attack' excuse.

No, I haven't taken a liking to him. Not at all.

A job is something totally unfamiliar to me. I suppose I tried, back when I first came to the Alleys. But that was when I was nine years old. Kids don't make good workers. They're distracted, they mess around, and then they get injured and you have a lawsuit on your case. I've heard it all from Grawe, who works in a broomstick factory when he's not grueling the residents of Cuffe about our seven Knuts a week. Maybe I would have tried a few years later, when I was eleven, but that was around the time they killed Liz and carted me off to Hogwarts. And after the war, I got as far away from that dreadful castle as I could, found some pocket money to get a bed at Cuffe, made friends with Amadine and Cat, and stole whatever money I could get.

I haven't exactly thought about a job. A _legal _income sounds preposterous. I don't like the idea at all.

But now I'm looking at Florean, whose face is unreadable, and his grandson, who looks completely shocked.

_He_ clearly does _not _think I am up to the task of working in an ice cream shop. And, had I not seen his gaping mouth and felt a rush of indignancy, I would have agreed with him. I've only ever known how to pickpocket. I can tell he doesn't trust me as a worker. Maybe I'll slip a Galleon in my pocket while I'm serving a woman her coffee. I know I would've done before I see him look so damn doubtful.

So he doesn't think I'm up to the task? I'll show him.

"I am prepared to accept that offer," I tell Florean coolly. "What does it entail?"

I try—and fail—not to look smug at _Jasper's_ disgruntled expression. Florean tells me that I must show up from nine o'clock to twelve o'clock every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday. I am to be a cashier—_oo-er_, that's fancy—and I will get two Sickles every day I work.

That's two Sickles every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday! It looks like I'm saying goodbye to Amadine's cold mushy stew and hello to _normal _food. I haven't had the stuff I see in the shop windows around Trofick Alley in _ages. _Lovely apples and peaches, rich plates of meat and potatoes, assortments of candies like the Fizzing Whizbees I used to be obsessed with. I've always needed my spare coins for rent or paying off Cat's debts so my useful little information genie doesn't end up in Azkaban. Now I'll be rich! Rich, rich...I'd be able to move out of Cuffe, of course. But I don't really want to. It's a place to sleep, it's quite cheap, and I rather like listening to Katie's bollocks and Beatrice's complaints. And I do want to be around for Avery's reaction when he finds out his little princess has got herself a famous fiance.

But this is good. Very good. I'm giddy after I leave Florean's office, because I'm going to show his prat of a grandson just how good of a worker I am, and I'm going to get _paid _for it.

In fact, I don't regret this decision at all until Thursday morning, when I realise I'm actually required to show up. No breakfast with Amadine and the poor, hungover fools. I'm not happy, and I have half a mind to quit as soon as I walk in. But my pride simply can't suffer any more than it did yesterday, and I guess I'll have to be a cashier for now if I don't want to endure Florean's grandson's—I think I'll just call him Fortescue, it's easier— smirks.

"What are you ordering?" I ask my first customer of the day, a short, stocky girl a few years my senior. Her hair is brown with chunks of platinum and pink, and her sparkly purple nail polish is chipped. She looks tacky, and although I'm far from a fashonista, I dislike her immediately.

"Oh, I'm not ordering," she simpers in an annoyingly cheerful manner. "I was just wondering if I could get a hold of one of your workers, if he's in?"

"Well, get on with it," I tell her, annoyed. Then I remember Florean's lecture about being respectful to customers, and I swallow what I was going to say next.

"Is Jasper there?" She twirls a tightly curled strand of metallic hair.

"Yeah, he's in the back room. Who should I say it is?" This is rubbish. I feel like a bloody butler.

"Oh, tell him it's Trudy. Trudy Mortlake."

Well, isn't _that _the ugliest name you've ever heard? "Hey, prat!" I call into the back room. Fortescue looks up, and for a second I'm amused that he answered to 'prat,' but then I remember that I hate him and should not be amused by anything he does. "There's a girl at the front for you. Trudy Mortlake."

His face visibly brightens, and he pushes past me. How rude.

"Tru!" he exclaims, hugging the girl. "I was wondering when you'd drop by. You got your hair dyed again, I see."

"Wotcher, Jas," she giggles. _Tru. Jas. _It's enough to make any sane person sick. I will not be keeping said sanity for long if I keep watching this exchange, _that _I can assure you. "Yeah, it's done again. Mum really hates it, she keeps on going on about how I'm going through a phase. Uncle Polly finds it absolutely hilarious, of course."

Who would name their _male _child 'Polly?' Definitely someone touched in the head. And clearly it runs in the family.

"Let me see if I can get that right." King Tosser closes his eyes and screws his face up really tight, and his hair turns the same as Trudy's. Trudy, Trudy, Trudy. No, I can't get used to it. It's too damn ugly. And this is coming from the girl whose parents named her after an _adjective. _"Now we're twins!" More giggling from _Trudy_. "Don't worry about your mother, Tru, we've always known she was a loon after the Trunk Incident."

They start cracking up again. All I can say is that this co-worker of mine (I mean, as if his ridiculous purple hair and weird lopsided grins didn't make me hate him enough) has pretty poor taste in birds.

"I see you've met Trudy." A tall boy with dreadlocks is standing next to me; he's scooping at the moment. I recognize him as the one who publicly humiliated me in front of loads of people yesterday—the war hero—and I nearly scowl before I realise how high he must be on the social food chain. I've never been one for popularity, but it can't hurt to suck up a little, can it? "I'm Lee, I work here too."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Bright." I shake his hand and flash a pearly smile. "So, Lee, you've been working here a long time, yeah?"

"Yeah, only summers. Ever since the war ended."

"So, tell me, how often does this girl come around?"

"Trudy?"

"Don't say the name."

"Why not?"

"It's ugly."

Lee laughs. "Shall we call her You-Know-Who, then?"

Oh, this is weird. It's very weird and I don't like it. I've never heard people _joke _about the war. I'm used to them skirting conveniently around the topic. But openly _joking _about Voldemort? I...it's unheard of. I brush it off, though, because I can't afford to be scandalized, not when I want to keep this job up for enough of a long time that Fortescue can't be smug when I quit.

"Yes, that seems adequate," I concur. "You-Know-Who and King Tosser." I've come up with Fortescue's nickname on the spot, so I think it's rather good.

"Is that your nickname for Jasper?"

"Of course, I think it fits perfectly."

"He's not a bad kid, you know. A bit insane. His parents got fed up with him pulling pranks on his cousins and running off on the Knight Bus all the time, so they sent him to old Fortescue to keep him in line. I wouldn't call him my mate, but he's a cool bloke."

I snort. "Whatever you say."

Then I decide to stop being so sarcastic around Lee. He's a war hero, after all. He's good friends with Potter, so I don't understand why he has to work in an ice cream shop. He could be living in a mansion with a pretty wife and three meals a day. But I don't question it. Maybe this bloke could get me in with someone who could get me the Curse Breaker job I've always fantasized about. The one where you can travel everywhere. Egypt, Albania, China...the likes. No, I'm going to be nice to Lee. I start asking him if he has any siblings, where he grew up, nice, normal, small talk questions. It's funny, because I've never been in a situation where I've had to make small talk with my higher-uppers. That's more the job of a Ministry dog.

This must be a pretty bad day for me and my persuasive mouth, however. I voice my thoughts without even realising it. "Why do you work in an ice cream shop?" I blurt. _Nice going, Quigley, _I tell myself bitterly. But Lee just laughs.

"Blunt. Honest. I like you, kid," he says. _Score! I should start doing this blurting-out-things more often. _"I have another job. I work in the Auror Office on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I know that Florean needs workers, though, so I guess it's just doing a good deed for the old man. Oh, and I'm doing a favour for my mate, too," he adds as an afterthought. "You know Oliver Wood?"

"Um, the coach of Puddlemere United?" I say, like this is obvious. Like I actually have money for a radio to listen to Quidditch matches on.

"Yeah, that's the one. His girl Katie disappeared a year back." That's weird. That's about the same time _my _Katie came to Cuffe. "Did a deal with a scumbag and lost all her money. And then—_poof._"

No way. This isn't true. "Was she—by any chance—on a Quidditch team with Potter?" I ask tentatively, trying to sound like I don't know much on the matter.

"Oh, yeah, I guess she was. Back when we were in school, she played Chaser with Leesh—" he smiles "—and Angelina. Why?"

"I—erm—nothing. Of course, nothing. What does she have to do with the ice cream shop?" _Good, Bright. Casual. Perfect. You'll think about Katie later._

"Oh, Wood got a tip-off from some girl who was staying around here for a few days—one of those damn French, I think—" _damn it, that's Contra for sure _"—that Katie was living around here in some run-down boarding house. I'm supposed to be keeping a lookout." Lee laughs. "It's not like I'll see her walking in here to buy an ice cream, though, if she really is short on money. Poor Wood's sad as hell. And now Puddlemere's doing rotten because he doesn't have the heart to coach them, so he might get fired—ha, what am I doing? Get back to work," he says teasingly, shoving me slightly towards the cash register. I giggle, just like I'm supposed to.

This is excellent. I'm being_ friends _with _Lee Jordan_, a _war hero_. I'll be seeing the pyramids in a week at this rate.

"Hey, Bright, take this coffee over to those ladies, would y'?"

I accept the tray of drinks eagerly (never thought I'd be brown-nosing as much as I am now) and stride purposefully towards the women with the silken robes and powdered faces. Suddenly, there's a flash of purple and I fall. The coffee spills all over me, and the teacups shatter on the linoleum. Fortescue is sitting on the floor, a dazed look on his face as he determines the situation.

"Watch where you're going, would you, you prat?" I growl, sweeping up the shards of porcelain.

"You were walking quick!" he argues.

"I was _not_! And your grammar is incorrect, you uncivilized tosser, you would say 'You were walking _quickly_!'"

"Uncivilized? That's rich, coming from the girl who pickpockets and lives on the streets!" I know he's expecting me to be hurt by this, but I'm not.

"And how would _you _know where I live? Been stalking me, have you?" I counter. Fortescue changes tack at the speed of light.

"I should be able to walk around my _family's _shop without being _toppled over _by clumsy _beasts_!"

"Oh, well I'm sorry, _Your Royal Heinousness, _I didn't realise we commoners were _getting in your way_!" I storm away carrying the tray of broken teacups, and shove him pointedly as I do so.

I dump the tray in the trash, look at the clock, and wave to Lee. "My shift's over," I tell him snappishly, and slam the door shut with a jingling of the silver bells tied to the handle.

For a second—a small, fleeting moment—I think the stupid prick is going to run after me, like in that novel Beatrice reads every night. But that's a romance novel, and the thought of being romantic with that ugly, purple-haired monster makes me shudder.

I head to Trofick Alley and spend one of my precious Galleons on a bottle of firewhiskey. I think there was a time when kids didn't drink strong stuff like this, but I don't remember that time. Besides, I may look like a kid on the outside, but I'm far better at holding my liquor than any of the adults around here, and I'm not going to be modest about it. I take a swig from the bottle and sit down next to the stall, drinking and looking about as pensive as a model in _Witch Weekly. _

"Oi, you know it's illegal for you to drink that, right, sweetheart?" The man looking disdainfully down at me is very, very intimidating. A James Bond type with scars and a trenchcoat.

"No, it's not."

"Sorry?" He doesn't look scary now. Just confused, sort of like a bunny rabbit that wandered into the wrong hole. The thought makes me laugh.

"Today is my seventeenth birthday," I lie cheerfully.  
"Kids these days," the man says with a scowl. "Do yourself a favour and go back to Diagon, would ya?"

I just stare at him.

"You heard me. Scat!"

"You're the one that walked over here, buster," I tell him. "_You _scat."

Maybe that was crossing the line too much. Maybe I should have just run away. This bloke looks seriously legal. But he just glares at me once more and stomps towards the cheese stall like a little tyke having a temper tantrum.

I want lunch, but it's far too expensive here, where the cheapest food is a feast of duck, potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables that would cost little less than all the money I have. Trofick's prices haven't changed since before the war. I only go there for alcohol and a place to get away from Cat. Cat's a bit traumatized by Trofick ever since a shopkeeper caught her stealing a few months back, which I find highly amusing.

I head back to Diagon and start making my way towards the Sneezing Snitch when a tall, built body blocks my path.

"We need to talk," Fortescue says bluntly. Well, it's nothing like Beatrice's novel, but it's a start, is it not? Too bad I don't _want _a start. Ha, I got you there, didn't I? You probably choked on whatever you were eating because you thought I had _feelings _for that little _squid. _

Eurgh.

"Okay, talk," I reply evenly as I sidestep him and keep walking. He keeps up easily, damn him.

"I think we should make a truce," he says. I choke on my breath and he practically has to do the Heimlich maneuver on me. _Well, there goes the sophisticated and mature approach, _I think to myself.

"What?" I splutter. "A truce? Why? Why would you want to do that? You're awkward and I hate you! And I'm poor and you hate me! A truce is not a good idea! Not at all!"

"Are you done being hysterical?" Fortescue asks after about three minutes of rambling. I feel the blood rising to my cheeks, and I don't know why I'm overreacting over this simple white flag. I think it's because I don't _want _to be _friends _with this _prat_—yes, that's probably it.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask coolly after I've calmed down. I really do want to know. Evil, devious teenagers like Fortescue do _not _just make truces for no reason.

"I don't think it's good for the store," he replies. "Business will be bad if we're arguing all the time on work hours."

"Aha, so this is only a _work _truce. They're teaching you young, aren't they?"

"Who?"

"The Ministry. They want you to be a businessman. It's good for the wizarding economy, and it's good for the image that everything's okay now. A man is taken by the Death Eaters, but he comes back, finds his kid, finds his grandson. Starts his shop up again. If you're there, it's like a family that _wasn't _torn apart by the war, just a normal family all working happily in a shop. The Ministry wants that. They want that stepford happiness to show the public. But is that what _you _want?" I look him right in his doe-like brown eyes, and I wonder where these words are coming from. Certainly not from my brain. This has never happened around anyone else; I've usually been very good at thinking before speaking.

"That—I—"

"Forget it, Fortescue," I tell him, and briefly consider using a Memory Charm on him. It'd be quite easy if there weren't so many damn people in the street.

"Er—"

"I said forget it. Now, why are you really doing this...truce?"

He sighs. "I don't like people being mad at me."

When I said he was probably a duffer Hufflepuff, I was right, wasn't I?

I ask him this, but I phrase it more politely. "You're a Hufflepuff, yeah?"

"Is it obvious?"

"Yes."

"Listen, kid—"

"—watch it, mate, I'm only two years younger than you—"

"Fine, _Bright_—"

"—I don't like that one much either, but I suppose it'll do."

"Then you'll have to stop calling me Fortescue."

"Nothing doing."

Fortescue huffs. "Would you _listen_? I just want a truce, O.K.? You don't have to be my friend—"

"—good, because I don't want to—"

"—feeling's mutual, kid—"

"—_Bright_—"

"Just bloody listen! I say we should speak to each other respectfully, no insults, or anything. Gramps won't hesitate to stop paying me if we keep this up, and maybe he won't fire you, because we really do need workers, but he'll—I don't know—_reduce _your pay."

_Of course, that's the reason I'm supposed to have taken this job in the first place, _I think to myself. _The money. _I'm not about to tell Fortescue that I took it to prove him wrong. That would seem like I cared about his opinion, which I don't. I just have pride.

"Yes, all right then," I say resignedly. "Truce." We shake hands. "I suppose that means you'll be accompanying me to lunch, which I will allow, but I assure you that I will not pay."

"You, Bright Quigley, are unlike any other girl I've met," Fortescue says dazedly as we walk towards the Sneezing Snitch.

Hm. I'm not sure I have a problem with that.

**A/N: Aaand the third chapter is up! AND MORE REVIEWS! OMG I love all of you who have reviewed. Which is two people. But it's a start, people, it's a start. **


	4. Chapter Four: Jasper

It's a hot, dusty, cloudy day. Because of this abysmal weather, Trudy and I are staying inside. We both live at the Leaky Cauldron, Trudy with her Mum (her parents are divorced) and me with Gramps. Since I have my own bedroom, we're in here, our spellbooks laid out as we pretend to do summer homework.

I've been best friends with Trudy since we were seven. Us being fifteen and all, people have teased us about getting together, but everyone knows we won't really. It'd be too weird. She's like my sister, and you wouldn't date your sister (I'm good at explaining things, aren't I?).

Okay, I'll break it down, since I don't have that much pride anyway. I used to be the Chief Prankster in my family. I used to prank all my little cousins. I got to Hogwarts, and it wasn't cool to set off fireworks anymore. I got closer to Trudy, a bookworm and a freak about studying, and I forgot pranking. I still have my stash of fireworks under my bed at the Leaky, but I've not told anyone about them. Not even Trudy. I don't know why; it's not as if I don't trust her. We tell each other everything. The only thing she likes better than studying is gossip, which is why I'm telling her the major details on my new co-worker now.

"Want me to be honest?" Trudy asks, chewing pensively on her Sugar Quill.

"Yeah, 'course," I tell her uncertainly, not sure if I want to hear what she's about to say.

"I think she sounds like she needs to be in a mental asylum. First of all, she's bloody rude to you. Second of all, she's clumsy. And you said there was that thing about her eyes that was sort of—sad? I mean, I get angst and all that, but if a kid is depressed, they need to go to St. Mungo's and get something for that." She tosses a sweet in the air and catches it in her mouth.

I thought Trudy would understand the weirdness I feel about Bright, but she doesn't. She's acting like all the other people in our year. Judgmental. _Wow, Bright was right, it's damn obvious I'm a Hufflepuff._

"She's not a kid," I argue lamely. "She's thirteen."

"Sure, Jas." Trudy rolls her eyes. "Just be careful, okay? She looked a bit loony to me. Not someone _I'd _be mates with."

"Whatever," I say. "I have to go help out at the shop. I'll see you later, O.K.?"

"I'll go with you," Trudy replies immediately.

"That's okay." I don't want to be around her right now.

"Eurgh, _fine_, I'm sorry! Merlin's pants, Jasper, you're _so-ooo-oo _overreacting over one comment about that kid. What is she, your new girlfriend?"

I flush. _No. _Definitely not. She just intrigues me...that's all. "I'm not narked about that," I say impassively as I grab my wand. "Gramps said you distract me during work, and I need the money."

"For what? Candy? Come _on_!" Trudy hollers as I close the door without replying. I don't need candy. I don't like sweets that much, and even if I did, I'd get more than enough from Trudy, who keeps an assortment of Honeydukes in her purse at all times. No, I want my two Sickles from working at the shop to add to my stash of fireworks. Sometimes, late at night when Gramps is snoring, I take the Knight Bus out to a hill in Godric's Hollow, and blow the sky up with golden gunpowder. Only my family knows about my pyromania, and even they don't know that it still goes on.

It's Wednesday. I don't actually need to be in the shop until half an hour from now. I told Gramps I'd be studying with Trudy in my room just an hour ago, and he let me off the hook. But all I want is something to distract me from my best friend's unexpected callousness, and serving ice cream seems like the perfect solution.

I walk in and see Bright at the cash register, looking unhappy as usual. She finishes serving a tyke and his babysitter, then turns to me.

"Need something, Fortescue?"

"Not really, no, I just didn't have anything to do and thought you might need a hand."

She studies me. "You mean you didn't want to study?"

I laugh as I pick up a scooper and run it under the hot tap. "Yeah, you could say that. We're learning Patronus Charms, and they're bloody difficult."

"Isn't that the charm to repel dementors?"

"Yeah. Do you learn that stuff early at whatever school you go to?" Suddenly I remember that she probably doesn't go to school at all if she's poor. But Bright doesn't correct me.

"No, I remember reading a book on them with Liz. She thought they were awfully pretty."

"Who's—"

"Hi, how may I help you?"

"One mint chocolate chip cone, please," says a girl I vaguely recognize as a sixth year from Hogwarts. I wait until she leaves, then try to quiz Bright on whoever 'Liz' is, but her eyes narrow and she changes the subject.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"No. What about you, who's your family?"

Bright laughs a bit maniacally. "What family?" She calms down after a minute, and presses a pale hand to her Adam's apple. "Sorry. I mean, I don't have one. No family."

Guilt bubbles in my stomach. "I—"

She cuts me off. "Don't worry about it, Fortescue. They were killed during the war—that's all."

I don't give her any 'I'm sorry's' or pitiful glances. She probably doesn't want that. "Do you ever get lonely?" I ask softly.

Bright doesn't reply. She just looks at me, her Caribbean-blue gaze hardening, and that sad, desolate look in her eyes makes sense now.

"No," she says finally in an emotionless voice, before picking up two sorbet dishes and walking off to deliver them to a table by the window.

After about half an hour more of working beside Bright in silence, she announces that her shift's over and leaves. I keep working for a few hours, and then it's closing time, so I walk Gramps back to his room.

"Here, I'll go get your medicine—" I say, but the old man interrupts me.

"No, no, Jasper, m'boy, I can do it."

"Are you sure?" I eye him suspiciously. He nods, waving me off.

"'Course. You're young, go out or something. Find that girl of yours and have a blast."

"You know Trudy and I aren't dating." I laugh. He's joking, which I knew already. I start looking around for the green potion he takes every night to prevent heart attacks or strokes.

"Wasn't talking about Trudy."

I freeze. "Who, then? I don't hang around any other girls."

"No, the one you talk to during work. Y'know—the new girl I hired. Blast it, I can't remember her name."

"Bright?" I laugh again. "The absence of your potion must've had some sort of side effects, Gramps, you're being barmy. Here it is." I hold out the tiny vial. "Think we might have to run to the doctor tomorrow to replace it. Remember, a quarter of a teaspoon."

"Remember, have fun!" Gramps tells me as I leave. I chuckle to myself as I light my wand to see the underside of my bed easily and grab a few rockets. Blue and gold, I think.

I _will_ be having fun tonight.

I tiptoe as I pass Gramps's room, because his light's still on, and make my way down to the bus stop where the Knight Bus will regularly stop every night. I don't like waiting at the stop too long, because it means going down into Knockturn, and that place gives me the creeps. The Knight Bus doesn't go directly to the Leaky Cauldron anymore, which I regularly hear Aurors complaining about.

The bus stop is next to an old boarding house called Cuffe, run by a geezer called Grawe who doesn't like me. I've never been inside, but I've met one of the tenants, a tall, lanky woman who said her name was Beatrice. If I didn't know better, I'd say Cuffe was a mental asylum.

I tap my foot on the dirty concrete as I wait for the Knight Bus. Suddenly, the rhythm is interrupted by voices.

"Damn it, Princess, you're a _fool_."

"I'm _sorry_, okay, Katie?" Hang on, I know that voice. That's Bright. I edge closer to the building the exchange is coming from.

"You didn't think to mention me? 'Oi, I _also _know a bird named Katie who _lives with me_, want to come see if she's your one?"

"I wanted to see if it was all right with you!"

"_Rubbish_! I eat out of the food Avery's daughter gives him every _day _instead of buying myself a decent meal because I need to save up whatever money I get to find them again! You thought all that I told you about Potter, and Lee, and Angelina and Alicia and _Oliver_—you thought it was all shite!"

"Of course I did!" Bright fires back. "It wasn't _logical_! If you were friends with Potter, a crisis wouldn't have deterred you! He'd give you about two percent of his gold and you'd be living like a queen! If you were _really _friends with him and all those war heroes, wouldn't they have helped you, Katie? Wouldn't they have heard a _teensy little snippet _about a war hero like you living in a run-down place like this and come and helped you out? Tell me that!"

"You're insufferable, do you know that?"

"I do."

There's a slamming of a door, and suddenly Bright comes out of the building and sits on the steps. Her dark curls are tied in a knot with a gold ribbon, which is odd, because she doesn't seem like one for petty accessories. She doesn't notice me at all. She whispers something indistinguishable, and a tiny wisp of smoke comes out of her wand.

She says it more clearly. "_Expecto Patronum._" I blink twice before I see it. A pearly white sparrow that flutters through the air erratically, twittering at the top of its lungs, before it fades into nothingness. I briefly wonder what memory she used. It has to have been strong, because it's uncanny for a thirteen-year-old to be able to conjure a Patronus.

Suddenly, a purple bus zooms by and pushes us both back onto the sidewalk.

"Oi! You two! Getting on or staying off? Oh, 'ello, Jasper, nice t'see you again." It's only Ollie, the gangly teen that conducts the bus. I'm sort of mates with him.

Bright stares at me like I'm crazy. "Fortescue, what are you doing here?"

"Hitching a ride on the Knight Bus, 'course," I tell her. Then I say something I know I'm going to regret. "Want to come along?"

That thing I was saying? About regretting? It's happening. I close my eyes tight shut and brace myself for some sort of hex for even suggesting such a thing. But it doesn't come. I open my eyes tentatively, and I see Bright smiling as she boards the bus. _Phew. _You know, maybe she's half decent, Bright. I didn't believe we could be mates before—of course, even I'm not thick enough to gather _that _from a measly truce—but now—

"C'mon, moron, get on! You've yet to tell me _where _we're going—and mind you, it better be good, or you're going to wake up in the middle of South America with loads of boils on your face."

Did I say something about being _mates _with that girl?

Halfway through the bus ride, I realise the immensity of what I'm doing. I've never told _anyone _about the fireworks, and suddenly my stupid mouth is telling this girl, who is possibly a loon, that she should come along to see them.

There's no going back now, though. Looks like I'm showing Bright the fireworks.

We get to Godric's Hollow, and she looks at _'Welcome to Godric's Hollow' _sign disbelievingly. Only a few lights are on in the cottages, as it's pretty late. Good—not too many people will witness the fireworks.

"I've been to Godric's Hollow before," she tells me as I lead her up the hill. "And I know what a hill looks like. Why were you even coming here? Going to watch the sun rise? Think deep thoughts?"

"It's eleven o'clock, how would I watch the sun rise?" I ask as I pull out the fireworks. Bright eyes them.

"You're going to set those off, aren't you?"

"Yep. Step one: plant the rockets in the ground." I take two out of my stash—one blue, one gold—and do so. "Step two: make sure you aren't so close that they're going to blow your head off." We take a few steps back. "Step three: ignite the fireworks and watch the magic happen." I grin at Bright. "Prepare to be amazed. _Incendio._"

We're blown back onto the grass as the rockets explode. Blue and gold sparks fly all over the sky, and Bright's lips are set in a perfect 'O', as if she's never seen fireworks before. She's looking at them in wonder like a child looks at a new broom model. I notice how the blue illuminates her eyes.

_I'm such a girl, _I think to myself embarrassedly. Suddenly, I get an urge. I load my fingertip with some of the leftover charcoal and smear it on her freckled nose. She looks shocked for a second. Then her face splits into a smile.

"I'm going to get you back for that, you git!"

And suddenly she's tackling me and we're laughing and there's no awkwardness and it feels good to have a friend, especially after how mean Trudy was this morning. I tug the ribbon out of her hair and the dark mop flies everywhere, and we find this even more hysterical. But in a blink of an eye, the moment is over, and Bright's staring at me as if she's just seen a ghost.

"They're going to be wondering where I am," she says softly, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes. I don't ask who 'they' are. I just nod mutely and walk her back to the Knight Bus, where we wait for another fifteen minutes in silence.

When we get back to the bus stop in Knockturn, she doesn't even say goodbye. She just waves pathetically and walks back into Cuffe. Then I walk back to the Leaky Cauldron, slip into my room, and flop down on the bed.

I notice I'm still clutching the gold ribbon Bright was wearing in her hair. I smile and stuff it under my bed with the fireworks.

There are some things that should stay secret.

**A/N: Fourth chapter :) Jasper's sections are always shorter. He doesn't flow as easily as Bright does, I guess...**

**You may have noticed that my chapters usually start getting put up soon after I get reviews on the previous chapters...soo...yeah, I guess the reviews are really super motivating! And you should give me more because I am very, very greedy.**

**Trudy's really awful right now, but I swear she's not that bad. I just don't like that character so I introduced her on a bad note. But she has to be a cool person to be Jasper's best friend, right? So maybe in my next Jasper chapter I'll introduce some of Trudy's very few good points. They ARE few.**


	5. Chapter Five: Bright

It's just finished raining. I'm sitting in the Sneezing Snitch for lunch, because I don't have work today, making small talk with Amadine about useless things like the peacock-feather quills at Scrivenshaft's. I'm barely paying attention.

My thoughts are on Fortescue.

I've half a mind to quit my job, even if I'm getting used to Amadine's sweet potato chips and fried fish. That boy is getting much too close to me for my liking. I don't know why I'm even being so friendly to him. I've been friends with Cat for about a year now, and I'm still rude and disrespectful to _her. _Maybe that's because she's a whiny midget, though. Fortescue knows too much. I accidentally mentioned Liz in front of him, and _very _few people know about Liz. He knows about my entire family. And I don't even know why I told him. I don't want any friends. I especially don't want a clumsy, purple-haired Hufflepuff who's even _kind_—Merlin's pants, I can't stand kind people—as my friend. I don't even know how I got to be his friend. One minute I hate his guts, the next I'm sitting on a hill with him in Godric's Hollow and we're setting off _fireworks _together. And having _tackle fights_! Tackle fights are friendly. Too friendly.

"Daydreaming, Quigley?" Amadine smirks as she sweeps her coppery red hair into a ponytail. "Can I guess why? That fellow you brought in here for lunch the other week—aha! She's frozen! Did I get it right?"

"No. Fortescue's just a friend."

"You don't _do _friends," she tells me disbelievingly.

"Fine. He's a colleague."

"Yeah, right."

"Shut your gob." I blush. I've never cared for the male gender, so why should I care for my idiotic—if a little endearing—co-worker? It's not logical.

"Bright!" Audrey Avery has come into the pub, and she's breathless. "Bloody hell, I've been looking for you everywhere. Dad said you'd be at Florean Fortescue's, that ice cream place next to Eeylop's, and the kid working there said that you frequent the Sneezing Snitch—and here I am! I've never been inside here. Nice place, really. Perce would like it."

"I like this girl," Amadine murmurs in my ear. I laugh. Speaking of Percy Weasley, Audrey told her father about him. Avery blew up. Yeah, sweetheart, _not _such a good idea when your old man's drunk.

"Yeah, I bet he would," I say to Audrey. "When _is _the wedding, anyway?"

"Erm...that's what I was going to talk to you about..." Suddenly, she looks _very _sheepish. "Well...y'see...it's kind of...tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I yelp. "How long have you been engaged to this bloke?"

"Ugh, why is everyone _asking _that?" She stomps her foot, like a tyke having a temper tantrum. "I just—_we _just—want to be married as soon as possible. It's not going to be a big wedding. Just a ceremony with family and a few friends."

"Not going to be a big wedding? He's a Weasley. He's more famous than...I don't know...God! Famous people don't _do _small weddings, they just _don't_."

"Well, this one does!" Audrey says defensively. "I didn't come here to hear your opinion on my wedding, okay, Bright? Here's the address of the place. It's a café, it's really nice, and the roof overlooks Vangant Alley. It's at five P.M. I'd like for you to come, if you're not busy...I'm only getting married once." Her face lights up. "Hey, you know what? You can have a plus one. Bring your fella." I open my mouth to tell Audrey that I don't have a 'fella,' but she's already waving goodbye.

"You're finished with your drink, kiddo," Amadine says, peering into my empty tankard. "Now scat. Eddie won't come in when you're in here ever since you stuck his shoes to the floor, and he's one of our best customers."

I grumble and push my clean plate towards her. "Ta, Ama."

"Don't forget to bring your fella!" she calls after me, a smirk on her black lips.

"He's not my _fella_," I mutter to myself as I slam the door shut. I'm heading back to Knockturn Alley to see if Cat's with the Dillonsby brat at their usual hangout, pawning the trinkets she's stolen in hopes that he'll forget her debt. But she's not there, and now I have nowhere to go. I pull a shiny silver Sickle out of my jeans pocket and turn it over in my hands, contemplating what it would buy. A bottle of butterbeer at Ambrosey. A new hair ribbon from Vangant to replace the one I lost.

An ice cream cone.

_Don't even think about it, Quigley._

_But—_

_It's not a good _idea_! What good can come from this friendship? It's mental. Twisted._

_Yes, but I'm so bored, and—_

_Besides, he'll be gone in a blink of an eye if you ever tell him about your past. Boys don't like hanging around crazy birds. You know it's true._

I sigh, and run a bony, pale hand through my hair. It _is _true.

I put on my raincoat and head towards the shop anyways.

* * *

"Hello, Fortescue."

"We're out of dirigible plum," he tells me without looking up from the paperwork he's glancing over. "Do you want French vanilla instead?"

I don't see how the absence of the dirigible plum ice cream concerns me, and I tell him so.

"It's your favourite, isn't it?"

"I—"

"You always dip your finger in the scooper after you serve it. That's how I know." He grins lopsidedly and tosses the paperwork in a drawer. "There's a place in Trofick that has it as well. 'Fraid it's not as good as ours, though."

"I don't like to frequent Trofick," I lie, remembering my diminishing supply of Galleons. "It's generally an unpleasant place."

Fortescue agrees. "So how about that vanilla?"

"I'll just have a coffee."

"It's on the house."

Any other girl would protest chivalrously, and insist that she be able to pay. But I suppose I'm a cheapskate, because I'm not wasting six Knuts on some stupid caffeine when I don't have to. I stay quiet as he turns on the machine with a flick of his wand.

"So, what brings you here on one of your off days?"

"I was bored."

"I'm flattered."

I sip the coffee and think about Katie. She's still angry at me ever since I accidentally mentioned that I work with Lee, but she can't be for long. Beatrice told me that she saw her heading towards Florean Fortescue's just the other day, and once she's reunited with her Quidditch coach, _she'll_ be begging _me _for forgiveness.

"So, how's the crazy housemate situation going?"

"What?" I ask, my mind still on Katie.

"Avery," Fortescue prompts.

Oh. Right. I told him at work yesterday about Avery's drunk breakdown upon hearing of his daughter's engagement.

"I think he'll get over it," I say, plucking a stirrer from the cup and wiping it on my napkin. "He just needs a bit of time."

"That's good, then."

Suddenly, like somebody has pressed 'play,' Audrey's voice sounds in my head. Loud and scratchy, as usual, but discernible.

_Bring your fella._

"The wedding's tomorrow, actually."

"So soon? How long have they even been engaged?"

"That's what I said! Audrey told me that they just want to be married as soon as possible, but that's rubbish. She just wants to be a Weasley so that she can get a decent job."

Fortescue whistles. "She's marrying him for the money?"

"No, she really does fancy him, but people aren't exactly queuing to have you work for them when your surname is Avery."

"Ah."

Now it's Amadine's voice.

_Don't forget to bring your fella!_

"Shut up," I murmur.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing."

The words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them. "Wangoweddingwimme?" I blurt.

Fortescue laughs. "Repeat that?"

"I don't—never mind," I say, clamping my hands over my burning cheeks so that he can't see how red they are. "I didn't mean to say that, it just sort of—"

"—came out," he finishes. "I know." Right. I forgot that he's an awkward Hufflepuff. "But really, what did you say?"

"I—I don't even remember, really," I lie, faking a laugh. "Isn't that silly? I can't even—"

"Bright." He gives me That Look, and I know that he knows I'm phony.

"Yeah, okay," I mutter. "I was wondering—Audrey said I was allowed to bring a plus one, see, and Cat wouldn't be able to come because she only has one dress, and, well, it's not a very _decent _dress, and she's not good at stealing from Twilfitt's, because the manager has it _in _for her, really, and—"

"You're rambling," Fortescue interrupts. I cringe. I _am _rambling. Merlin's pants—who let the dork out?

"Erm, yeah. Sorry. Basically, d'you want to come? To the wedding? With me?"

_Did I _actually _just say that?_

_Great. Just bloody wonderful. You'll never hear the end of this from Amadine, you know._

_Yep. I know._

"Yeah, 'course."

"Wicked!" I say loudly, attracting the attention of half the shop and waking up old Mrs. Lorrimer. "It's at Moody's Café in Vangant Alley at five P.M. and I've really got to go—um—find Cat, see you later Fortescue!"

Then I bolt.

**A/N: Sorry I haven't updated! I've been at camp for the past four weeks, and I came back—now my writer's block has magically disappeared. I don't like this chapter a lot—it's a bit of a filler. Next chapter is Jasper and his thoughts on preparing for the wedding and Bright asking him, so it'll be shorter and not a lot better—but the chapter after that is the wedding in Bright's POV! So be excited! Yey! And don't forget to review!**


	6. Chapter Six: Jasper

"Jas! Jasper Fortescue! I'll blast down the door—don't think I won't!"

"Calm _down, _Trudy," I sigh, opening the door to my room. "What's up?"

"Well, fucking _finally_!" Trudy exclaims, storming past me and flopping down on my bed. She must really be mad. Trudy doesn't curse a lot. "I Flooed you, dropped by the shop, I even took the time to go down _Knockturn Alley_! And it's _filthy _there, Jas."

"Why would I be in Knockturn?" I inquire.

"I don't know! Doesn't that queer midget you hang out with live there or something?"

"And you didn't check my own room first? That's hardly logical..."

Trudy ignores this. "There you go again! 'That's hardly logical,'" she mimicks. "You sound just like her. Eurgh! One of these days, you're going to morph. I swear to Merlin. You're going to _become _a skinny, thirteen-year-old _brat_." This unwarranted insult towards Bright makes my face heat up, but I keep quiet, watching her puff angrily (a bit like a dragon, really) until her breathing slows and I can tell that she's calmed down. "Wow...I'm sorry, Jasper. I didn't mean it, really I didn't. You know how I get when I'm fired up." She looks over at me, and to my chagrin, her hazel eyes are filled with tears. Oh, know. I can't deal with girls when they're crying. Even when it's Trudy and I've known her forever. "It's just—you've been hanging out with _her _so much—is she your new best friend, or something?"

"Of course not," I say instantly. _Please stop crying, please stop crying. _"_You're _my best friend, Tru...aren't you?"

She looks me straight in the eyes, her face emotionless. "I don't know." Then she sighs, and looks away. "It's all silliness, I suppose. I'm awfully moody today. Hey, want to go out tonight? I've just got to get out of Diagon. I'm so sick of Mum and Nigel."

"Nigel?" I inquire.

Trudy looks at me like I've lost my head. "Didn't I tell you about him?"

"No."

"He's Mum's new boyfriend—and a real cad, too. He always hogs the bathroom and the smoke from his pipe is clogging my brain! I hate him." Suddenly, she sits up. "See, this is what I mean. We haven't even been talking!"

"You and Nigel?" I ask, confused.

"No, me and _you_! You didn't even know about Nigel until today!" Trudy puffs again for a while. "It doesn't matter too much, I guess. Well, anyways—what do you think? We'll hit the town. We can go to Vangant. I've always wanted to go to Vangant."

I have an affirmative answer on my lips, but then I stop. "I—I can't. I'm sorry, Trudy." I almost tell her about the wedding, but then I realise that would pretty much be _asking _her to kill me.

Her face falls. "Yeah, that's O.K."

"I'm sorry. Really." Hopefully I can get out of there before she asks me _why _I can't go. "If that's all—"

"Wait."

Dammit.

"What _will _you be doing?"

"I—er—I'll be at a wedding."

"Really?" Trudy asks, a suspicious gleam in her eyes. "Whose?"

"A friend of a friend." It's not really a lie.

"Well...I hope you have fun, Jas." _Phew. _I got by! "What's Bright going to be wearing?"

"I don't know, she hasn't t—shite."

"That's all I wanted to know," Trudy says in a tone so cheerful that it scares me. She hops off my bed, bends over the mirror to run her fingers through her metallic hair, and slams the door behind her.

_Great. _Now I've screwed things up with Trudy. I know she's expecting me to go after her—isn't that why all girls run in the first place? But I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want her sudden dramatic antics and jealousy, I don't want her awkward crying, I don't want to have to keep reassuring her that _yes, Tru, we're best friends—best friends forever, don't you remember? _ I'm sick of it. Sick of her.

_It'll change, _I tell myself, flipping through my tees and school robes. _You'll go back to Hogwarts in September and it'll all be back to normal again. Once Bright isn't here anymore._

Yeah, that girl _did _seem to complicate things. I had a pretty damn normal life before she showed up. Well, despite my parents practically hating me and going off to Ireland all the time. But I was happy—sort of, anyway.

"Here we are," I say to thin air, holding up my only nice clothing. I don't own dress robes—Mum never bought me any—so when I have to look formal, I have a black button-down shirt, black jeans, and black trainers. It's not too dressy, but it'll do. _Black for a wedding, Fortescue? _says a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Bright. "Shut up," I tell it.

I don't know why she asked me to the wedding—truly. I know we have a truce. I think we might be friends. But I never imagined she liked me enough to _invite me to something. _Of course, maybe she doesn't. Yeah, that's probably it—she _did _sort of make it sound as though she was only asking me as a last resort. That's good, then, because if she was doing it as a nice gesture or (as Trudy makes it sound) something _more_, that would complicate things. And I don't like complicated things.

But I like Bright (well enough), and she's definitely complicated. Still I find myself wanting to know more about her. Why she's so sad and bitter—that's her family, obviously, but I want to know about _them. _What they were like. I want to know who Liz is. I want to know what bands Bright likes and what her favourite flowers are and who she cares about, if anyone. I don't know how I got to wanting to know all these things, and it kind of scares me. Because Bright is not in my comfort zone. If my comfort zone is here, then Bright is in Japan.

Or maybe even farther away than Japan. Maybe she's on Saturn.

I check my watch quickly and swear. It's four-thirty, and I'm going to see Bright at Cuffe in fifteen minutes. I dress quickly, comb my hair for once, and turn it bright green for the occasion. Then I go down the familiar route to Knockturn Alley.

**A/N: So there you go, my filler chapter. Next chapter is Bright's POV and the wedding!**

**Also, I have a new story out called 'Get It Right.' I want it to be a multichapter—and, of course, finished—but I'm experimenting with it. It's about an OC, Dennis Creevey's daughter: her mother's dead, her dad's insane ever since said mother died. Tragedy and all that good stuff. Anyway, she's being brought up by a retired Madam Pomfrey (for those of you who don't know, that's the hospital wing nurse from when Harry was at Hogwarts) and the story starts before she goes to Hogwarts for her first year. She's in first year with the more famous Next Generation characters—Albus, Rose, Roxanne (or at least, she's their age in this fic) and Scorpius—and some OCs, because I love OCs. PLEASE check it out, it would mean everything to me, and review! :) That's all, folks. **


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